


Epilogue: Sherlock and John

by earlgreytea68



Series: KtCR [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6006370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock and John made their way toward happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before Christmas, so that it was going to be seasonally appropriate, and then didn't finish it, as you can see. I'm posting this now to keep me honest to make sure that I just WRITE THE REST OF THIS ALREADY. I actually know exactly what happens, I just need to put it down on paper. THAT WILL HAPPEN. THERE WILL BE MORE OF THIS SOON. 
> 
> Thank you to arctacuda for the very patient beta. In answer to your beta question: Yes, there will be more. :-)

“Peace on Earth, good will toward men? What sort of choice vapidity is _that_?” 

John Watson didn’t even blink an eye. Over years of flatmateship, no-idea-what-to-call-it-ship, possible-codependence-ship, significant-other-ship, and now co-parent-ship, John Watson had learned not to blink an eye at most things. He considered it one of his finest talents, honestly. He thought it was going to serve him well once the baby grew up and turned into a difficult teenager. Which every person he encountered ever told him was sure to happen. 

“These are our Christmas cards,” John explained patiently, and scrawled _Love, The Watson-Holmes Family_ on the bottom of one of them. 

“ _Those_?” screeched Sherlock. “Those cards with that terrible, trite saying on them?”

“It’s a nice sentiment, Sherlock,” John said evenly, patiently. “A nice sentiment for the season.” 

Sherlock was silent, and John didn’t think for a minute that this conversation was over, but John had learned to be impressively productive in the silences he could muster. Between Sherlock and the baby, they were very rare. 

Sherlock eventually said very slowly, “Season…” 

John had to look at him in disbelief then. “Sherlock,” he said. “It is _Christmas_.” 

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Is it?” 

“Did you not wonder why we had a tree strung with lights in our lounge all of a sudden?”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said, waving a hand at the tree.

“Irrelevant?” echoed John. 

“I deleted it,” said Sherlock, and collapsed onto the sofa as if that ended the conversation.

“Well,” said John, going back to addressing their cards. “Now that we have a baby, we have to pay more attention to Christmas.” 

“Why?” asked Sherlock. “What difference does it make?” 

“I just think it will be nice. She likes all the decorations. She smiles and coos at the tree every morning. I’m looking forward to letting her open all her presents. I want to pull crackers with her when she gets older.”

“We can do all that at any time of year,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why must we wait until Christmas?” 

“You’re just going to leave a decorated pine tree in a corner of the lounge all year round?” 

“Why not? If the baby wants it.” 

“You can’t give her everything she wants,” John said. 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge that. Sherlock said, “Are you signing all of those cards with ‘love’? Because that’s inaccurate. I don’t love any of those people.” 

“We’re sending this one to your brother,” John said. “Can I sign that one with ‘love’?”

“No,” sniffed Sherlock. “Sign it with ‘adversarially.’”

“Right underneath the ‘peace on Earth’ message?” asked John wryly. 

“Well, you’re the one that chose that insipid message,” Sherlock replied. 

John wrote _Love, Sherlock, John, and Violet_ on Mycroft’s card. He even added an _xoxoxo_ to the end. Let Mycroft Holmes dwell on _that_ , he thought proudly. 

***

Mycroft’s car arrived, and Sherlock frowned down at it. Violet was standing at Sherlock’s chair, chewing thoughtfully on the edge of Sherlock’s dressing gown, which Sherlock had left on the chair expressly for that purpose. He found that there was no need not to provide Violet with every convenience. John said words like _spoil_ , which Sherlock didn’t understand, as comparing Violet to a perishable was ridiculous. They weren’t about to perch her on the kitchen counter with the bananas and the butter. John also said words like _unsanitary_ , which was equally ridiculous, because Sherlock knew the things that would kill a person, and chewing on a dressing gown wasn’t one of them, unless the dressing gown was laced with poison, and Sherlock had analyzed his carefully, and it wasn’t. John also said words like _unsafe_ , which Sherlock privately found almost pathetic. The least safe thing in the world was being born, and Violet had already been through that. There was only so much one could do after that, and Sherlock was doing his best. It was a bloody dressing gown. John could be unreasonable. 

Sherlock stood at the window for a moment, then turned to Violet and said, “The hideous fat man has arrived.” 

“Santa Claus?” asked John, walking into the lounge with a suitcase in his hand. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked sharply. 

“ _We_ are going,” John said, and picked Violet up. “What have I said about chewing on the dressing gown?” 

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said. “Going where?” 

“I’ve told you this,” John said. “Don’t even pretend you’ve deleted it.” 

Sherlock considered. “No, I’ve deleted it.” He looked out the window, at where Mycroft still hadn’t got out of the car. “Why isn’t Mycroft coming in? Does he just mean to sit there and glower from within his car? If so, I must say this is a welcome change of pace.” 

“We are going out to him.” 

“What?” Sherlock asked in alarm. “Why?” 

“Because we are going to your parents’ for Christmas.” 

“Christmas?” echoed Sherlock, and looked at the brightly lit tree in the corner of the lounge. “Is it still Christmas?” 

“It hasn’t actually been Christmas yet. Come on.” 

“My _parents’_?” Sherlock said. “Why would we—”

“Because it’s Violet’s first Christmas and she needs a family.” 

“She has a family,” Sherlock pointed out reasonably. 

“Your parents want to make a fuss over her.” 

“That sounds pointless.” 

“Yes. Indeed. Exactly what I say to you whenever I catch you insisting that we wait for Violet to wake from her nap before doing any casework.” 

“Violet doesn’t want to miss any casework,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Violet is nine months old.” 

“Nine months and thirteen days,” Sherlock corrected. 

“And yet you pretend you don’t know that it’s Christmas. You know exactly what day it is. And behaving foolishly toward a baby is a singular joy of grandparents and also of grandchildren to receive it, so we’re going to give it to Violet with your parents, as she hasn’t any other.” 

“And we’re going with Mycroft,” said Sherlock flatly. 

“I like how quickly he can get us through traffic,” John replied with a shrug. 

***

There were things Sherlock didn’t understand. He didn’t admit those things out loud but he was frank about them to himself. He had an ongoing list. An enormous number of the things on that list involved John. For everything he thought he understood about John, there was another thing that bewildered him, chief among them: _Why does John stay?_ Sometimes Sherlock thought it had to do with Violet, because taking care of a baby was easier with two than with one, but sometimes, when Violet was sleeping, John looked at him and smiled, or told him a story with his face alight, or laughed at something Sherlock said, or climbed on top of him and started taking his clothing off, and at those moments Sherlock thought maybe it had nothing to do with Violet. 

John, when asked, gave the reason as, _I love you, you gigantic idiot._

Which made the question not _Why does John stay?_ but _Why does John think he loves you?_ And at moments like those Sherlock tried to list in his head his desirable qualities and came short, and then he remembered Eames and Arthur and how they had told him that he had to believe John, that he had to trust him, that it was the only way this would work. 

Sherlock tried. He didn’t press John on it. He let John say he loved him and sought to believe it. Most of the time, Sherlock tried to justify it by explaining fervently in return how very much he loved John. 

There were also items on the list concerning Violet. _Why does Violet scream bloody murder if you take two extra minutes making her a bottle?_ for instance. Sherlock, for the life of him, could not manage to convince Violet how little food ought to matter for her. It was one of the topics about which Violet was irrational. 

Sherlock was deciding that another item on his list was: _Why does everyone go mad at Christmastime?_ His mother and father both fussed unreasonably, and the house was decorated madly, and even Mycroft was alarmingly cheerful and tried to poke Violet’s eye out doing something he insisted was “peek-a-boo” but Sherlock had to rescue Violet from the odd torture. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock told Violet, tucking her into his coat as he squired her outside. “They’ve all lost their minds. They call it ‘Christmas’ and it’s an utter waste of time.” 

“You can’t just take her outside without a coat,” frowned Mycroft from the doorway.

“She’s in my coat,” Sherlock replied. “And don’t pretend you know everything about babies. You’d never encountered a baby in your life before Violet.”

“I encountered you,” retorted Mycroft. “Which puts me with far more baby experience than you had.” He stepped outside and frowned at Violet, bundled up in Sherlock’s coat, and then tucked her coat under his arm in annoyance that he could see no excuse to make Sherlock unwrap her from his coat. “At any rate: I read books.” 

Violet squawked, which told Mycroft what she thought of that. 

“And how goes the first year?” asked Mycroft, in that annoying way he had. 

“You already think you know,” retorted Sherlock, “so why waste time with this pointless conversation. You’re boring Violet.” 

“Am I boring you, Violet?” Mycroft asked her. “Would you rather discuss what Father Christmas is going to bring you?” 

“Father Christmas,” scoffed Sherlock. 

Mycroft gave him a keen look. “Tell that to Doctor Watson, who is currently hiding a considerable number of presents throughout the house.” 

Sherlock frowned and wanted to accuse Mycroft of lying, but none of the indicators of a lie were present. Sherlock said instead, “John hasn’t purchased any presents,” because he was quite sure of that, because none had arrived at Baker Street. John wouldn’t have been able to hide presents from Sherlock. 

Mycroft said mildly, “He had them delivered directly here.” 

“Directly _here_?” exclaimed Sherlock, and then hated himself for not being able to muffle his surprise. 

Mycroft looked smug, but then again, Mycroft always looked smug. He said, “Well, much more practical, don’t you think?” 

This suggested, Sherlock realized, that John had intended to spend Christmas here at Sherlock’s parents’ house all along. How long had they all been colluding about Christmas? It was maddening, because now they were all going to believe that they had tricked him, when in fact their subterfuge had only succeeded because of how appallingly little Sherlock cared about Christmas. Sherlock had refused to bother his mind with their senselessness. He would have seen immediately what they were up to, it just hadn’t been worth the effort. 

But Sherlock knew Mycroft wouldn’t understand this, so Sherlock just sniffed at him and said, “I think Violet is cold now,” in order to get himself back in the house and check on John’s actions. 

Mycroft said, “Indeed,” smugly, the way he said everything. And then he said, giving Sherlock pause on his way into the house, “And what have you bought your Dr. Watson for Christmas?” 

***

John and his parents were sitting in the lounge, and John had a profusion of toys spread out on the floor in front of him. 

Sherlock stared at the pile. “ _John_ ,” he said, intending it to be scolding. 

John said, “You can’t just bring her in here! She can’t see!” and leaped up to try to cover Violet’s eyes. 

“Is this about Christmas?” Sherlock demanded. 

His mother said, “Come now, Sherlock, you remember the magic of believing in Father Christmas.” 

“No,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I do not. I was never so foolish.” 

“Aww,” said his father, “when you were a wee lad, you used to write Father Christmas endless letters.” 

“No, I did not,” denied Sherlock. 

“You were always asking for rabbits for Redbeard. You were convinced Redbeard longed to chase rabbits,” added his mother. 

Sherlock was so distracted by his parents’ ridiculousness that he surrendered Violet over to John without thinking. 

John said, “Put the gifts away, Sherlock. I’ll take this one up to get her ready for bed.” He beamed at Violet. 

Violet beamed back. 

Sherlock beamed a little bit at the pair of them, but just because it was the pair of them, and not because he approved at all of all of this Christmas nonsense. 

As soon as John left, his mother said, “Sherlock, dear, it’s Violet’s first Christmas. You want it to be special.” 

His father said, “And it’s your first Christmas with John, too. That’s important.” 

His mother said sharply, “I do hope you bought him a gift. He will be so disappointed otherwise.” 

Sherlock wanted to say that John wouldn’t care, because John knew that there was nothing Sherlock would deny him if he requested it. 

But Sherlock looked at the Christmas presents John had bought, scattered all around the living room. Sherlock thought of _why John stays_. Sherlock wondered if maybe he needed to buy some Christmas presents. 

***

John came across Sherlock sprawled on top of their bed with his fingers steepled against his lips and lifted his eyebrows. “And what are you so lost in thought about?” 

“Hmm?” said Sherlock, not moving from his position. 

John shook his head and pulled his jumper off. In most circumstances, he knew better than to try to get through to Sherlock when he was turning over a puzzle in his head, but in this particular circumstance he was perplexed. They were supposed to be enjoying Christmas; he didn’t want Sherlock preoccupied with murder. Granted, a good murder would be Sherlock’s idea of a perfect Christmas, but John wanted Sherlock to remember Violet’s first Christmas. John knew Sherlock as a father well enough by now to know he would regret it otherwise. 

So John finished getting ready for bed and slid under the covers and said, “What is it? Did Mycroft say something to you?” 

“Hmm?” As it often did, Mycroft’s name sliced through Sherlock’s thoughts. He turned to John with an automatic frown. “Mycroft? Why do you think I would be thinking about Mycroft?” 

_Because you are far more concerned with Mycroft’s opinion than you ever like to admit_ , thought John wryly, but didn’t say because he didn’t want to distract Sherlock. “No reason. You’re thinking very hard about something, and the last person you spoke to was Mycroft.” 

“I’m thinking about the absurdity of spending Christmas here,” Sherlock huffed. “We could have spent it at home. It would have been quiet.” 

John laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Sorry, but since when are you a fan of ‘quiet’?” 

Sherlock frowned, looking very serious. “I like quiet.” 

“No, you don’t. It makes you bored. You’re always waking Violet up when it gets too quiet.”

“I don’t wake her up.” 

John snorted. “I love that you think you’re subtle about it.” 

“Speaking of Violet, where is she?” 

“Sleeping,” John said firmly. 

“She hardly needs to sleep so much,” grumbled Sherlock. 

“She doesn’t sleep a lot,” said John, who felt like he hadn’t slept more than three hours altogether since Violet had been born. 

Sherlock made a dubious noise and went back to staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. 

John, after a moment of watching him, ventured, “Would you rather go home?” He’d thought this was the kind of Christmas memory that they would all cherish in the future, that even Sherlock would enjoy it without realizing how much he needed it, because sometimes Sherlock was like that. But he didn’t want Sherlock to have a reason to sulk over Christmas. He wanted their first Christmas together to be incredibly special for each of them. 

“No,” Sherlock said, and he sounded like he was telling the truth. “I’ve got an idea to make this work.” 

“And should I be worried?” asked John calmly. 

“Why would that worry you?” Sherlock demanded, oblivious. 

John wanted to point out that sometimes the combination of Sherlock and ideas was not a good one. But instead he just shook his head and grinned and said, “No reason. Now. Do you think you might see fit to get under the covers here with me?” 

Sherlock looked at John and smiled. It was an unclouded, genuine smile; John had his complete attention; whatever Sherlock had been thinking so hard about was no longer troubling him. 

So, John thought. Nothing major, then. 

***

Sherlock checked on John and Violet. They were in the middle of doing something very messy with a bunch of Christmas decorations with Sherlock’s parents. Probably they would say it was “decorating,” which was a nice way of saying “pointless time-wasting.” But it was serving Sherlock’s purpose in keeping them busy. And Mycroft was off pretending to be very busy and important in that insufferable way he had. 

So Sherlock was able to slip outside and pretend to be sneaking a cigarette but really sneak his mobile out of his pocket and text a number he hadn’t thought he’d ever communicate with ever again. _If you were going to propose to Eames, what would you do? –SH_

Sherlock didn’t expect Arthur to respond, so he stood and smoked his cigarette and pretended he wasn’t waiting for Arthur to respond. 

Then his mobile buzzed. 

_Kind of a personal question._

Sherlock considered that response. Well. Yes. Possibly. Sherlock supposed it was personal, a bit. But it wasn’t like he’d just asked about their sex life or something. A proposal was something that Sherlock knew people made public. He’d been exposed to the proposal stories when people at the precinct or at Bart’s got engaged. Tedious, but definitely shared. 

_There’s a protocol. –SH_

_I think the main protocol is not to think of proposing as a protocol._

Sherlock frowned. Well, that wasn’t helpful at all. 

Arthur texted again: _Propose in the way that feels natural._

Also not helpful. It wasn’t like Sherlock had good instincts for doing things the way other people did. He knew that. He was the opposite of an idiot, of course. And normally he didn’t care, but, well, he wanted John to like his proposal, of course. He wanted it to be a spectacular Christmas present. 

Maybe, thought Sherlock, he ought to just buy a ring and wrap it and stick it under the tree. That seemed like something boring, ordinary people would do. _I wanted to get you a perfect Christmas gift, and I thought maybe getting married would be it._

Sherlock wrinkled his nose just thinking of it. That was so ridiculous. He could just imagine John’s look of disbelief. And his parents’ looks. And _Mycroft’s_ look, ugh. John wanted the formality of a marriage. Sherlock knew he did. John was, at heart, old-fashioned. They were raising Violet together. And John loved him. John _stayed_. This would make John happy. This was a perfect Christmas gift. It just… Not like that. 

Then Arthur texted again: _I would propose to Eames on the spur of the moment, with very little planning or thought going into it._

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at that. He considered trying to do this spontaneously. He considered walking into the house at that moment, over the tangled “decorations,” and asking John to marry him. He couldn’t envision that, either. 

Then there was another text: _Because that’s who we are as a couple. That suits us. Eames loves spontaneity. Eames knows it’s an indication of how much I care. That’s what you do to propose. You find that for you._

Sherlock tipped his head at the text and thought about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a disaster about so many things lately, not the least of which was getting this chapter done. Sorry for taking so long with this. Thanks for being patient. 
> 
> Another thing I have been a disaster about has been responding to comments. Your comments bring me so much joy that I drown in guilt that I've been delayed in getting back to so many of you. Please never think that it isn't because I don't love and adore and cherish all of you. I hope, now that the disorganized flail that accompanied this fic is over, to get back to being more organized about all things. 
> 
> I appreciate how lovely all of you endlessly are. I have the best readers in the whole entire universe. 
> 
> I also have the best beta in the whole entire universe, who also had to cope with what a disorganized flail I was over this fic. THANK YOU, ARCTACUDA.

Chapter Two

“We should take Violet for a walk,” Sherlock announced, coat already donned, Violet already bundled up in the baby Bjorn Sherlock was wearing. 

“But, Sherlock,” his mother protested. “We’ll have dinner soon.” 

“We are at least forty-seven minutes away from dinner, because the potatoes never roast as quickly as you think that they will.” 

His mother sputtered and scurried off into the kitchen to check. 

“Come, come,” Sherlock said, and took the mulled wine out of John’s hand. 

“Hang on,” John said. “I didn’t even get to have any of that.”

“It’ll be here when we get back,” said Sherlock brusquely. 

“Isn’t it a bit cold outside?” John said. “It’s nice and cozy in here by the fire and—”

“Fresh air is healthy, John,” Sherlock told him. “Aren’t you always worrying about unhealthy conditions?” 

Well. John couldn’t deny the truth of that. He was always worrying about the chemicals around the flat, about the possibility of Violet being exposed to firearms. “Yes,” John said, “but I didn’t mean—”

“Physical activity is good, isn’t it? _Exercise_.” Sherlock said the word dubiously, as if it was _abracadabra_ or some other magical talisman word. 

“Right,” John agreed. “But she can’t exactly—”

“Here we go,” said Sherlock, twisting John’s jacket onto him. 

“Violet can’t exactly _exercise_ ; we’re the ones exercising.”

“And isn’t it good for us to exercise, too? Goodbye, all,” Sherlock called into the kitchen. “We’ll be back. Enjoy the mulled wine. I’m sure it’s part of your diet, Mycroft.” Sherlock shoved John out the door before they could hear Mycroft’s reply. 

John looked at Sherlock, thinking he was acting weirder than usual. “You okay?” 

Sherlock looked annoyed. “Excellent. And look at Violet. Isn’t she enjoying herself? Isn’t she excited to be outside?”

Violet was drooling around her fist in her mouth. 

“I guess,” John said, because she didn’t look _not_ excited to be outside. 

“Here we go,” Sherlock said, and then intertwined their hands and smiled brightly at John, swinging their joined hands between them as they walked off together. 

John looked from their hands back to Sherlock’s face. They never held hands. “Okay,” he said, not sure what else to say. 

“Very romantic, isn’t it?” said Sherlock. “A romantic walk in the woods.” 

“Sherlock, what is going on?” John demanded. 

Sherlock’s face fell. “Can’t we go for a romantic walk in the woods?” 

Which of course made John feel bad that he was so suspicious. “I guess,” he allowed. But the truth was that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had, not really. Their version of a romantic gesture generally involved a decapitation, or the washing of dishes. 

But maybe John shouldn’t question this. Maybe John should try to enjoy the utter normality of a romantic walk in the woods. 

John hated it. It was dull, and he wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be looking at. Sherlock was silent next to him, not a sulky silence, an oddly placidly content silence, which John tried and failed not to find suspicious. Maybe Sherlock was setting up a little puzzle for John, because that was what Sherlock would have found romantic. 

So John said, “Is this some kind of Christmas present?” 

Sherlock gave John a look. “A Christmas present? A walk in the woods?” 

“I don’t know,” John said awkwardly, and didn’t want to point out that it was pretty obvious that there were no presents under the tree from Sherlock to John. Not that John had _looked_ , but, well, okay, of course he’d looked. And it wasn’t that John had expected a present—presents weren’t Sherlock’s thing—but still. 

“Christmas is such a tedious time,” said Sherlock. “Every time you do something, everyone thinks it must have something to do with _Christmas_. Why must Christmas be so all-encompassing? Why can’t we go for a walk in the woods just to go for a walk in the woods?” 

“We’ve never gone for a walk in the woods before,” John pointed out.

“We’d never had a baby in the flat before Violet came along,” Sherlock retorted. “That’s working out reasonably well.” 

“You’re right,” agreed John. “Let’s try new things. Walk in the woods. Maybe we’ll come across a murdered hiker.”

“Hope springs eternal,” said Sherlock happily. 

Eventually John grew tired of aimless walking through the woods. Country life was probably all well and good for some people, but John thought it would kill him pretty quickly. Or he’d end up killing Sherlock. They would definitely be at each other’s throats. 

“Violet must be cold,” John said, even though Violet was singing happily to herself and seemed not at all displeased by the walk in the woods. “We should go back.”

Sherlock didn’t quarrel about it. He said mildly, “We’ve been rounding back for a while now, we’re almost there.” 

“Oh,” said John, realizing he’d had no idea where they were. “You know, if you want to start going for walks, we can go for walks in London. The scenery might be more entertaining.” 

Sherlock’s parents’ house came into view. Sherlock had been right: they had been nearly there. 

“Far more likely to discover a dead body in London,” remarked Sherlock, as the positive that it was with regard to their family walks. 

“Exactly,” said John, as they headed toward the house. He was already thinking longingly of the cheerful fire and the mulled wine. 

Except that when he walked in the house it was to find Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents passed out cold. 

John ran to them immediately, exclaiming, “Oh my God! What happened to them?” He felt for their pulses, relieved when they all had one. “Call for—” he started to tell Sherlock, and then cut himself off when the sound of a helicopter whipped up around them. “Is that a helicopter?” he asked. 

“Obviously, John,” Sherlock snapped, stepping over to the window to look out. 

Violet beat her hands in glee. 

John joined Sherlock at the window, watching a helicopter wheeling closer and closer to them in the sky. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “Do you think that has something to do with…” John turned back to Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents. “Do you think the helicopter has something to do with what happened to them?” 

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Sherlock mused, watching the helicopter land. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John protested. “They’re—wait, it’s actually landing in your parents’ garden.” 

“Hardly my parents’ garden. It’s rather a pasture beyond the garden.” 

“Sherlock, while we went for our walk in the woods, something happened to your parents and Mycroft and now there’s a helicopter landing in the front garden. _Why_?” 

“Let’s go and see,” said Sherlock happily, and walked out of the house.

“Sherlock!” John ran after him. “It could be dangerous! We can’t go out there with Violet—”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly dangerous, John. Look, they’re bureaucrats. Must be something for my brother.” 

Sherlock was right, there were two men getting out of the helicopter, dressed in dark suits and carrying briefcases. 

John said, “Brilliant. Your brother, who’s passed out in the house. That doesn’t make us look suspicious at all.” 

“Suspicious in what way?” Sherlock inquired. “They doubtless drank too much mulled wine and are now in alcoholic stupors. Much more interesting things are going on.” Sherlock was watching the men as they approached them. “Do you have your gun?”

“It’s _Christmas_ ,” John protested. 

“Exactly!” Sherlock smiled at him, eyes gleaming with glee, and then said, “Oh, wait, you mean it’s actually Christmas.” 

“Yes, and Violet—”

“Mr. Holmes?” said one of the men as he arrived. 

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock. 

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” John said, because apparently Sherlock planned to impersonate his brother. “Mycroft is—”

“It’s Sherlock Holmes who’s necessary. We have a request from our client.” 

“Who’s your client?” asked John. 

“The request is that you come with us,” said the man, ignoring John. 

“Hang on,” John said. “We’re not going anywhere without knowing who your client is.” 

“Will this help?” the man asked, and opened his briefcase.

“Christmas crackers,” John said, staring at the contents. 

“A gesture of our client’s goodwill. It’s merely a puzzle, Mr. Holmes. A Christmas gift. For both of you.” The man sent John a quick smile. 

“What—” John said. 

“A puzzle,” said Sherlock pleasantly. “Excellent. Let’s go,” and began walking with Violet toward the helicopter. 

“ _What_?” said John, and ran after him. “You’re just going to take Violet on that helicopter—”

“She’s going to love it,” Sherlock said, and Violet did look delighted by the prospect, arms and legs flailing energetically. 

“We don’t even know where it’s going.” 

Sherlock glanced at the man. 

“Not far,” said the man. 

“See?” Sherlock said. “There you have it. ‘Not far.’ How bad could things get ‘not far’ from here? We’re in the most boring place in England.” And with that Sherlock ducked to board the helicopter. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” exclaimed John, but had no choice but to follow him. 

Sherlock already had a headset on Violet to protect her ears, and one of the men handed one to John as well. John took it and forewent shouting at Sherlock over the noise of the helicopter, because it wouldn’t have been effective. Instead he glared at him. Sherlock appeared unaffected and looked out the window. So did Violet, who looked absolutely fascinated. _We are raising a daughter who is excited by trips in strange helicopters_ , thought John. 

They didn’t go very far at all before landing on the lawn of a great house, and John didn’t know what to make of it. The men ushered them off and then got back in the helicopter and took off, and John and Sherlock and Violet stood in the middle of a deserted lawn. 

“Well,” said Sherlock happily. “Might as well explore.” He headed up toward the house. 

John hurried after him. “This isn’t an adventure, you know.” 

“What?” Sherlock looked at him mildly. “Yes, it is. Of course it is. Really, John, nothing bad is going to happen. Enjoy yourself.” 

“How can you—” John cut himself off as Sherlock opened the first door they reached and they found themselves in a large, ornate ballroom, empty save for a single table set for two. With a highchair. “They’ve even got a highchair for Violet,” said John, stunned. 

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock, and walked over to the table and began taking Violet out of her baby Bjorn. 

“Wait,” John said, following him. “You don’t know if—”

“Sherlock!” a voice exclaimed. “John! Welcome! I’ve been waiting! And little Violet. Hello, little Violet.” 

John stared at Angelo as he leaned over and tickled Violet’s cheek, making Violet giggle. John said stupidly, “Angelo.”

“I’ve brought a candle for the table,” Angelo said, putting it on the table. “It’s more romantic.” Then he winked and moved off. 

John looked at Sherlock, who sat equably, Violet settled in the highchair, and looked back at John. He said, “What is this, Sherlock?” 

“Sit,” Sherlock said, and gestured to John’s seat.

Except that John couldn’t sit, because there was a piece of paper on the seat. Which, when John picked it up, he realized was a…marriage certificate. In their names. Unsigned, unofficial, but still… John looked up at Sherlock in amazed shock and could think of nothing to say but “ _Sherlock_.” 

“Happy Christmas,” Sherlock said. “I thought you might like to get married.” 

“Sherlock, _what_?” said John, and collapsed down into the chair that was conveniently there. 

“Did you have any plan to spend your life with someone other than me?” Sherlock inquired. 

“No,” John said. “But—”

“Then I thought we ought to make it official. For Violet’s sake, at least.” 

Violet stuck the end of a spoon in her mouth. 

John felt like he was two steps behind, but he was finally catching up, a not uncommon feeling for John. “You set this all up. You…drugged your family.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock. 

“And then hired a helicopter to alarm me.” 

“You like adrenaline,” said Sherlock. 

“And then set up a romantic dinner.” 

“I don’t know if it’s _romantic_ ,” said Sherlock. “It’s just a dinner.” 

“You brought in Angelo. From _London_.” 

“Our first dinner,” Sherlock said. “I thought there was symmetry. I thought…this is what we do. Odd, unexplained things happen around us, potentially dangerous things, things we need to puzzle through, and at the end of it all…it’s you and me and dinner. Now, you and me and Violet and dinner.” 

John stared across at Sherlock, who looked, now that John was collected enough to consider it, vulnerable and uncertain. Because Sherlock had set up this elaborate proposal, worried John might not say yes. Which was ludicrous. And what was especially ludicrous was that Sherlock would think John would say no when Sherlock had set up what was, astonishingly, the most romantic proposal of all time. 

He said that. “This is the most romantic proposal of all time.” 

“Is it?” asked Sherlock, still sounding uncertain. 

“It’s perfect.” John walked around the table and leaned over and placed a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him soundly, and when he drew back he rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s and closed his eyes and breathed out, “It’s perfect.” 

“Is that a yes?” asked Angelo. 

John started and pulled away a little bit, not having known Angelo was in the room. But he looked at Sherlock’s incredible, well-known eyes as he said firmly, “Yes. It’s a yes.” So that he got to see the way they glowed with magnificent happiness at him in the instant before Sherlock caught him up and pulled him back in for another kiss. 

Angelo popped champagne open, and Violet squawked in surprise at the noise, and John knew that at some point he was going to have to make sure Sherlock’s family was okay, probably by taking a helicopter back to the house. But, for now, it was him and Sherlock and Violet and dinner, sealed with a kiss. The way it would be for the rest of their lives. 

It was perfect. 

 

_The end_.


End file.
